


Guard Your Sleep

by a_q



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1790905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_q/pseuds/a_q
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't want to go through the drop alone, and there's no one he wants present more than Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guard Your Sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elyssblair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elyssblair/gifts).



> Written for the request: Clint/Coulson + AU: a/b/o. 
> 
> Bibelot means 'trinket', used here as an (old-fashioned) endearment to young omega. 'Drop' means heat.

Clint called him in the middle of the mission brief. Coulson excused himself, delegated the job to the next agent with enough clearance and called the depot to get a car. He stopped by his desk to grab his overnight bag and headed to the road. Even with GPS it took some time to find the town and it was already evening when he parked the car at the side of the road and checked the address one more time, peering in the dim light at the house numbers. It was the right place.  

He got out of the car and took his bag, locking the car. He looked around as he crossed the street, trying to get a sense of the place. The houses were big and old, architecturally different, but all painted in bright, candy-like colors. Pinks, blues, yellows and greens, one after another. The front gardens were beautiful and stylish, lots of old fruit trees and flower beds, some herbal gardens, the smell wafting in the breeze. 

The number ten was a blue house, with white door and decorative trims. He stepped on the porch and knocked on the door, turning to look around the yard. There was tall apple trees, the grass littered with garden gnomes, the jolly kind. He had never understood the point, but here the gnomes seemed to be right at home. 

The lock clattered behind him, and he turned to stare at the barrel of a shotgun.

It was a beautiful weapon. Walnut stock, engraved lower receiver, shiny black barrel. Elderly lady held it steadily toward his head, her posture showing that she knew what she was doing. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail with an apple-shaped pin, fingers full of chunky rings. She eyed him back and she didn't seem to like what she saw. The shotgun inched closer.

“Yes? Speak up boy.”

It had been awhile since anyone had called him a boy. He tried to look suitably solemn.

“Phillip Coulson for Clint Barton, ma'am. He called and asked me here?”

“Hah. How am I supposed to know that's true?”

“He advised me to admire your handsome apple trees, ma'am.”

The lady thought another moment and then nodded, lowering the gun and propping it under her arm.

“Can't be too careful these days. I never had trouble with him, but there's always the first time in everything.” She stepped aside, holding the door open for him. “Come on in then.”

“Thank you ma'am.” He stepped past her, and stopped to wait while she locked the door again.

The house was as colorful from the inside as it was from the outside. He could see in to a small sitting room with beautiful antique furniture, framed pictures on the walls and small decorative items on every flat surface, the type of things people tended to gather when they had a house to fill and memories to keep. It was all lovely, but he didn't quite understand how Clint fit with all this.

“I gave him a room in the back, for privacy. He's a good boy, you know. I would hate to see him uncomfortable.”

“I know, m'am.”

She threw a stern look at him, like she tried to catch him sassing her. Coulson kept his expression neutral and respectful, the same way he did with Fury. It seemed appropriate.

“This way.” She led him through the house to the back, through massive kitchen. She opened the door to a small room, that might've originally been for a cook or a maid. The walls were painted white, the window covered with a striped curtain. Clint sat on the large bed that take most of the room. He wore pajama pants and nothing else, his bare feet propped up against the headboard. There was television set placed on a dresser, blaring some reality show. Clint glanced up at them and frowned.

“Silly old bat, why do you carry a shotgun around?” he asked. “You'll shoot your foot off if you aren't careful!”

“Don't tell me what to do _bibelot_ ,” she said. “This is my house and you're my responsibility. I guard you the way I see fit!”

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” Clint said, sounding completely genuine. "But now that he's here, you can go put that gun back to the case. Lock it too, please?"

Coulson was sure Clint could take down any kind of assault more efficiently than an elderly alpha armed with a shotgun, but Clint didn't let that show from the way he spoke to her. And it wasn't hard to see that the old lady was genuinely worried about him in turn. Coulson started to understand why Clint had chosen this place for the drop.

“Fine, he's here. I'll leave you to it then,” she said. “You shout if you need anything, _bibelot_. I won't go far.” She threw another stern look at his direction and Coulson nodded solemnly, accepting the shift of responsibility. 

She frowned and turned, vanishing in the corridor, the kitchen door banging after her.

“She's not going to put the gun away, is she?” Coulson asked.

“Don't think so, but don't worry. It's only loaded with rock salt,” Clint said and sat up, waving his hand toward the chair by the bed. “Come on in, take a seat.”

”She's an interesting woman,” Coulson said, leaving his bag on the floor. Clint noticed it, and for a moment Coulson was sure he looked relieved, like he had doubted he wouldn't stay. “How did you two meet?”

“Ellie? You don't know her? She's one of us. Retired now, obviously. Worked with Carter herself back in the fifties.” Clint pulled his feet up, resting his arms on his knees. “I met her when I was in the rookie camp, during one of those adaptation exercises. Everyone else got to work with regular people, and I got a high-ranked ex-SHIELD agent who can sniff out other agents a mile off. I think the trainer didn't care for a single O in the middle of her bright B-group.”

“I've read your file. You passed that test,” Coulson said, taking the offered seat. He had vague idea about the trainer Clint meant. Hardliner when it came to mixed training but she got results. Her rookie camps produced good field agents, but not many great ones. Clint was the notable exception as far as Coulson was concerned. He made a mental note to look up this woman.

“Yeah, well, I think Ellie felt sorry for me, so she offered to help me. She knows all the exercises types, I think she originally designed some of them. Anyway, after I pruned her apple trees and cleaned her gutters, she invited me in for coffee and cake.” Clint smirked. “I got in the premises. That was a technical pass.”

“Yes it is,” he said. "Nicely done."

“Except she likes to hold that over my head every time the gutters clog or she needs something else done,” Clint said. “She's a funny one though, and she lets me stay over anytime I need. I don't mind helping her, I'm sure its written somewhere in the files that I visit her.”

“I'm sure,” Coulson said, watching him closely. “She acts very protective over you.”

Coulson had read his last mission overview, and considering what had gone down, Clint was in better shape than he had expected. He looked tired, and the bandages were a stark contrast against the tanned skin of his arms and chest, freckles burst there like buck shots, along with insect bites and half-healed scrapes. The cuts and scrapes didn't worry him as much as the way he sat, tense and guarded. It wasn't good for him to get worked up, but he had called him here, invited him in, and Coulson felt the need to look after him. He just wasn't sure how.

“How are you feeling?” he asked carefully.

The policy was that they offered medical assistance and choice of safe houses for the duration of the drop, but if the agents wanted to make their own arrangements, that was always preferred. There had been even a study a few years back, showing that the O-group and most of the B-group benefit from the higher level of independence than most of the A-group. The only problem was that when they went their own way, it was difficult to help if they needed something, which was why he was happy that Clint had called. It was clear that the first signs of the drop were already there. Clint's hands shook slightly, dark circles under his eyes. Coulson put up his kind look, and Clint scoffed, shaking his head.

“Don't give me that look. I'm not a child. I'll be fine. It's the first time I've asked someone to come over like this, that's all” he said, turning to look at the empty kitchen. “She wasn't sure if it was a good idea.”

“I'm glad you called me,” Coulson said, meaning every word. “What would you like me to do?”

“Shouldn't you know?” He turned to look at him, genuinely surprised. “I thought you would know. I want you.”

"I can make you sure you are safe here, or find you a place where you feel safe, I can procure medical aid for you if you need, see that you have enough to eat and drink if you feel like it. Anything the kind that would make you feel comfortable.” He took a deep breath before added: “I can't, however, have sex with you.”

“Can't or won't?”

“Can't,” he replied without a pause. “That is a code of conduct I won't break.”

“But if there wasn't protocol?”

“But there is.”

“I'm not in the drop yet,” he offered. "I can make informed decisions. Body's gone haywire, but there's nothing wrong with my mind."

“Company, safety, medication, food or drink, those are the choices,” Coulson said firmly, putting a stop on this line of thinking. Clint could say anything he liked, but there was no denying the physical evidence and that made all the difference.

“Would you sleep with me?”

“Clint...”

“No, I mean, sleep next to me? I can shed this thing faster if I get solid rest, I would be good to go by morning,” he said, sliding to make room on the bed. ”You can do that, can't you? It's been awhile since my last drop, I just need someone I can trust to stay with me. And that is according to the protocol, right?”

“Yes, that's right,” Coulson said. There was plenty of restrictions and security guide lines surrounding the drop. It was common sense. You didn't want highly trained agents heat dropping alone, and in the worst case, surrounded by civilians. Anything could happen. "I suppose that's fine."

He checked his messages and turned the phone to silent before slipping it back to his coat pocket. He turned to look at the television, taking off his coat and folding it over the back of the chair. ”What are you watching?”

”It's a cooking competition, I don't know what it's called.”

”Is it any good?” he asked, pulling off his tie and rolling it up. He pushed the roll in his jacket pocket and then sat down to take off his shoes. Clint watched him with interest. 

”It's alright. Better than staring at the wall. You can turn it off though, if you like.” He looked tired, though he tried to mask it with a grin. Coulson wasn't fooled, he had seen the turn several times before. He got up and pulled the duvet aside, helping him under the covers. 

"You better rest, I don't want to give Miss Ellie a chance to say I don't guard your wellbeing correctly."

"We don't want that," Clint agreed. Coulson shut the tv, and went to turn down the light, the room falling into darkness. There was some garden lights or street lamps outside, the yellow stripes of light streaming through the curtain. He went back to the bed and lay next to Clint, making sure there was a proper distance between them.

"Is this fine?" he asked.

"Yes."

Coulson listened his breathing calm down, watching the shadows move on the wall, the shape of an apple tree branch. The back door opened and closed, quiet steps walking to the door. It opened and Ellie peeked in, taking in the picture. It was hard to say because the poor light, but Coulson was sure he saw her smiling.

“Everything alright?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you, Ms. Ellie,” he said, trying to be quiet and not to wake Clint. She peered at him for a second longer, then nodded and closed the door. He listened her walk away from the kitchen, the little squeaks on the stairs as she went upstairs. The pipes swooshed, the old house groaning in its own curious way. The bed was soft, Clint's weight against his side comforting and he had had a long day. He dozed off.  

He woke up to the feeling that something heavy was pressed against his chest. He tried to shift but the weight didn't budge, wrapping firmer around him.

“Clint,” he muttered, trying to get his bearings.There was a drowsy reply and he pushed, plopping Clint back to his side. It took bit of a tousle, so Coulson sat up and checked that the gauze hadn't peeled off, and there was no dark stains that meant the stitches had ripped. Clint's skin felt cool under his fingers, and his breathing steadying again. Coulson let him be, lying back to his side. He watched him sleep until he dozed off again.

He startled awake to the same heavy feeling on him. This time Clint had tangled himself around him like a big heavy cat, and it took a real effort to pry him loose. Clint muttered his objections but finally gave in, rolling over to his side.

“Cold,” he complained.

“Hang on,” Coulson said and got up, remembering that he had seen extra blankets at the dresser. He fumbled in the dark, reaching for one blanket and shaking it open, spreading it over him. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, his brow furrowed.

“Cold.”

“It's just the drop,” he said quietly, pressing his palm over his forehead to feel his temperature. It felt normal, but he knew that didn't mean much to Clint at the moment. “Try to sleep.”

“Don't leave me here alone,” he pleaded, sounding genuinely stressed about the possibility. Coulson lay next to him, tugging the blanket around his shoulders.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he said, stroking his arm gently, until Clint quieted and fell asleep. This time Coulson didn't pull away, but stayed pressed close to him so he wouldn't get restless again. He was fully dressed, Clint was under two blankets, it was surely enough to maintain their modesty.

He woke up to the morning sun hitting his eyes and to the smell of coffee and frying bacon. He tried to move, and realized that Clint had managed to curl around him again, this time with the blankets tangled along in the mix. Coulson didn't want to wake Clint, but he would be hungry when he eventually woke up, and it would be good to have a plate of food waiting for him.

Coulson moved carefully, sliding his arm free first, then nudging Clint on his side of the bed, his head propped on the pillow. He got up and reaching for his shoes. He got up and tried to brush his shirt straighter, though it didn't help much.

He went to the kitchen and found Ellie standing by the stove, cracking eggs into a pan. She glanced at him, head to toe and nodded at the table. Coulson pulled a chair, watching her flip the eggs in a practiced move.

“Looks like you slept in your clothes,” she said. “That's interesting. He had plans for something else, you know.”

“I know. The code of conduct, it says...”

“I remember what it says, I wrote the first draft of that damn thing. Didn't think it would be in use this long. If I had known what I know now, it would've been very different piece,” she said, lifting the skillet with two hands and carrying it to the table, placing it on the trivet.

“How so?”

“Life is short, especially in this profession,” she said, shoveling eggs and bacon on the plate and dropping a piece of toast on top of it before handing it to him. “Trust me. If you find love, hold on to it tight and hell with everyone who tries to convince you to let go.”

Coulson stared at her in shock. “Thank you. Ma'am.”

“You're welcome. Is that your phone?”

He realized the incessant buzzing wasn't coming from the garden, but from the room. He got up and went to grab his phone.

“ _Change of plans. I need you to get to L.A. as fast as you can. Stark has surfaced, I want you to brief him.”_

“Yes, sir. I'll get the first flight out.”

The call disconnected and he sighed, closing the phone.

“I know that sigh. Fury ordered you to go somewhere?” Clint asked from the bed.

Coulson turned. “I'm afraid so. There's breakfast if you feel like eating.”

He shook his head. “Maybe later.”

“How about orange juice? You should drink something,” he said, going by the bed and kneeling down to check his temperature. He looked still tired, the glassy sheen in his eyes.

“Will we see again?”

He didn't know why he did it, maybe because Clint looked resigned that this was it, maybe because the old lady might have a point. Maybe he wanted to know how it would feel, maybe it didn't matter why. He leaned to kiss him, taking his time to press the moment in his memory. Clint grabbed his shoulder, pulling him closer, back into the bed. It would've been a perfect way to spent such bright morning, but Coulson had to let go. “I'll call you when I land. We can continue this in a few days, if you like," he said. 

"Do I ever," Clint said. "You're lucky I have to be careful with the stitches, otherwise you wouldn't make it to L.A. anytime soon."

"I belief you," he said and kissed him one more time, then few times more. If you start to go against the protocol, better do it well.


End file.
